


Did The Stars Kiss You Goodbye

by invisible-inktopus (basketcasewrites)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Human, Coffee, College, Dorks, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, college students
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-31 22:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12691323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basketcasewrites/pseuds/invisible-inktopus
Summary: "What's the deal with this guy anyways? Blond, blue-eyed. He could be anybody," Simon declared roughly, slamming the open magazine down on the desk in front of Clary.In which Simon, never dazzled by celebrity or status, crossed paths with Jace Wayland. Jace, whose clear eyes and crooked smile could win over the heart of anybody; whose clear eyes and crooked smile masked so much more than he'd ever let known.





	1. Chapter 1

Pretty may not be everything, but it could not be denied that that was all he had.  
Flawlessly unlined porcelain skin, thick strips of fair eyelashes accentuating the almond shape of clear eyes, a head of light hair, strands of which were always falling in his face.

He stared blankly ahead of him, hands settled into the pockets of his black leather jacket. Perfectly tailored, the crown to his all black ensemble.

Jaw strong, smirk playing on his slightly dry, chapped lips, unshaven beard adorning his face; Jace Wayland was hot commodity.  
Agents from all over New York, even from beyond, would fight gladly to the death if it meant a chance to work with him. Claw at each other's eyes without a seconds thought if that was what it took; tear each other apart.

Cameras flashed wildly at all surrounding angles, dangerously bright, erratic bursts of light cast upon Jace with no warning but for the cacophonous yelling of his name falling from the mouth of strangers; reporters and photographers as they each attempted to get the best shot of Jace with his new agent. The agent, a man introduced briefly, and simply, as Magnus.

The mystery that encompassed the new agent, in fact, that encompassed the entire situation far more a reason for the unwanted garnered attention.

Reporters from sleazy magazine after sleazy magazine trying to one-up each other, strategically placing each other to get the best photographs of the two of them together before they disappeared off the red carpet. Paparazzi trying to do better than them all, con them out of one more weeks pay.

_Jace Wayland_ , tomorrow's cover story would most likely read, _Hollywood's Pretty Boy Moves On With New Agent._

Maybe the fine print would explain further, most probably it wouldn't: he had numbed himself to caring too deeply about anything that the media had to say about him. Numbed himself to caring about anything at all.

Following behind Magnus, Jace slid into the waiting limo— one of his new agent's many extravagances— molding himself against the thick carseat. Expensive, Italian, soft against his back; easing the tension from his muscles, sore from having to stand all day.

"Smile for the cameras, sweet pea," Magnus said, rolling down Jace's window just enough for him to wave off at the few fans waiting behind hours after most had left. A final picture for the paparazzi before Magnus ordered the driver to go.

  
•

  
"What's the deal with this guy anyways? Blond, blue-eyed. He could be anybody," Simon declared roughly, slamming the open magazine down on the desk in front of Clary.

Legs akimbo, he balanced himself precariously on the corner of the desk, in the small space he had just managed to clear for himself amongst the clutter on the large wooden desk. Thick textbooks and notebooks, stationary, discarded food containers, candy wrappers, all belonging to one or either of them and creating a fine layer of mess.

Swiping a thick lock of rusty red hair behind her ear, Clary glanced over at the article that had unceremoniously been placed before her. Glossy photograph of the light haired, muscled man taking up an entire page.

"I don't know, he's handsome. In a rugged sailor kind of way," she said, eyes fluttering lightly as she skimmed over the article. "It says here that he's a model. Something. Something. Something. Something. Oh, he's an actor, too. Made some movies... Interesting. What's your deal with him?"

Shrugging, Simon stared down at the image. The magazine pushed aside by Clary as she returned to focus all her attention on her art history book; studying for a test that she had barely been informed ahead of time for.

"Nothing," Simon breathed out, bringing his shoulders up in a half shrug, glaring hotly at the shiny photo. "Just his stupid, handsome face. Rugged sailor. Beard. So much beard. What kind of name is Jace, anyway?"

"Si, you're rambling," Clary said, stopping him with a light hand placed on his leg. Laughing quietly under her breath, she shot a steady look Simon's way, urging him to speak. "You have a beard, too. Remember," she pointed out, gesturing towards herself with a wide smile, smile only growing the longer that he remained silent. This, a running joke between them.

Loudly, he exhaled. A deep sigh of exasperation. "Ha-de-har-har. You are one-hundred percent hilarious. You are Jimmy Fallon. You are—"

"Starting to lose interest in your rambling?" Clary cut in with a raised eyebrow. Apologetically, she sighed, holding up her textbook towards Simon. "I'm sorry, Si. I do want to listen to you and your issues with this random celebrity— I _do_ — but I've got to study."

"You know what, I don't need this," Simon said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. A smile curling the corners of his lips, revealing the pair of surprisingly sharp canines, Simon unfolded his legs and landed with a muffled thump on the cheaply tiled floor. "I'm going to go to Raphael's, he'll appreciate my _rambling_."

A sharp eyebrow raised Simon's way, Clary attempted to restrain the smirk threatening to make an appearance across her pixie-like face. "Raphael, huh? I hope you take a break from your rambling while you're there and get yourself laid."

Unintelligibly, Simon mumbled a string of curses under his breath. He straightened from tying the laces on his ratty pair of sneakers, jumping up unsteadily. The jump, uncoordinated, stumbled Simon slightly backwards when his thigh hit against the edge of the solid desk.

The heat blazing across his cheeks, a clear indication of the blush bright against his pale skin, he stared silently at his friend for just a second, not trusting himself to say anything. He rolled his eyes in Clary's direction and turned on his heel, flipping her off over his shoulder as he made his way out the room. Cheap wooden door slamming shut behind him.

  
._._._.

  
Simon stilled a hand over the guitar balanced comfortably in the seat of his lap. Fingers brushing lightly against the taut string, emitting from it a low twang that resonated throughout the small waiting room of the tattoo parlour; an absentminded act, a habit.

The song had been playing on a loop in his head since the morning, there from the very moment his eyes had opened. Quick, half asleep, hand still numb, he jotted down the bare lyrics as they came to him.  
If the pressures of class hadn't called to him, he would gladly have spent the entire morning fleshing out the song.

Reclining against the dark green, leather sofa, leg propped on his knee, Simon struck another chord; sharp, ringing out an unmelodious shrill. The room, for all its dark ambience— blood red walls, almost a deeper shade of maroon, plastered with drawings and templates of tattoos— held no inspiration for the young man.

"If you keep playing like that you're going to have to stop coming around here," Dot teased lightly, rolling up her sleeves as she stepped through the beaded curtain separating the back room from the front, soft tinkling sound following behind her. "You're going to chase all our customers away."

"What customers?," Simon asked impulsively, voicing the first thing that came to his mind, his smile growing wide in greeting. "I have this song _stuck_  in my head and I've been trying the whole day to sort out lyrics and music and chords and— And it really sucks right now, but I'm working on it."   
His voice, raising at the end of the sentence in the simple, optimistic cheer that only he seemed to possess, raised a small, bubbling laugh from Dot as she settled herself behind the front desk.

Neatly placing aside the slim stack of tarot cards— beautiful and richly painted, rough at the edges, vintage— handling them carefully to get to the larger stack of more formal documents underneath. Simon watched her distractedly, wondering, as he always wondered, whether her claims of psychic abilities were real. Whether they were truth or fallacy; a scam.

"It's rude to stare, Simon," Dot chastised him clearly, seeming to sense the distracted train of his eyes on her, not lifting her dark eyes from the paperwork. "Don't you have some awful music to get back to?"

"It's not awful," Simon cried defensively, cradling the neck of his guitar to chest, running a soothing hand over it as if it could have been offended. "It's just going through something right now: a tough time. It's going to get better."

Another soft chuckle from Dot sliced through the room, empty except for the two of them— customers hardly ever coming in before sundown, and Clary ending her last set of extra classes; a side job, more profitable than she had expected it to be.

With a slight shake of her head, dark brown hair falling from its loose ponytail and framing her face, Dot murmured, "Whatever you say."

He tilted his head forward, a soft smile playing on his face, lightly calloused fingers once again rested on the strings of the guitar. In his own mind, lost amongst flowing words and a slowly forming song.

Each of them occupied in the semblances of their own lives, sitting in comfortable and companionable silence.

Time passed fluidly without them noticing, the peace shattered only by the shrill alarm beeping from Simon's phone, tucked neatly into the back pocket of his jeans. Loud, obnoxious, drawing attention and doing exactly what it had been made to do.

In one swift motion, he pulled out the large cell and switched off the alarm, glancing sheepishly up at Dot glaring daggers at him.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, slightly breathless, eyes darting over and away from the time in large, bold print in the dead center of his lockscreen. Simon sprang gracelessly from the sofa, the guitar carefully placed in the nook between the sofa and the wall— the space kept the borrowed instrument out of sight and free from being scuffed— that he had long since claimed as his own.

Taking Simon in questioningly, instinctively standing when he had, Dot watched as the boy moved frantically. He grabbed ahold of his jacket— a dark bundle thrown in the tight corner of the couch which stood beside the one he had been sitting on— and patted down the pockets, checking if his keys were there and safe.

"What's wrong?" Dot asked, worried. Her motherly instincts immediately kicking in.

"I have this assignment for music theory that I've had like... Like, three weeks to do but I kept getting really distracted," Simon explained breathlessly, pocketing his keys and slipping into his crumpled jacket, "And since Clary is going out tonight, I figured I'd never get a better chance than this one, right?"

"Right," careful agreement, a slow nod of her head, Dot's brow furrowing as she gave Simon a careful once-over and lowered herself back into the comfortably padded seat.   
  
A quiet chime sounded through the parlour, the front door— clear sheet of glass framed by wood painted a deep crimson to perfectly match the walls of the front room, paint chipping and peeling from age but still aesthetically pleasing, bringing with it a further sense of the vintage veneer—opening and hitting against the overhanging brass bell.

The jingle of the bell, the last thing to be heard after Simon's hurriedly yelled "Bye, Dot" before he jogged carelessly into the midst of the few pedestrians littering the sidewalk.

 

  
Hands curled around the end of his dark grey jacket, Simon fixed it into place and tightened it around himself; conserving as much warmth as possible. He had rushed out of the shop much faster than he probably needed to, bundling into the coat at that speed hadn't left him much of a chance to set it properly.

Nudging the pair of tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose with the knuckle of his right index finger, he made his way towards his and Clary's shared apartment. Albeit slower than before.   
He hadn't been lying to Dot when he'd told her about his plans earlier: his music theory assignment had been sitting, untouched abandoned, for weeks now. The deadline loomed around the corner, a hulking menace, Simon needed every moment he could gather to work on it. With Clary out for the night, it left him, at the least, seven undisturbed hours.

Yawning loudly, caffeine deprived, he glanced at his wristwatch. Five thirty, he could slip in and out of the corner café and still keep to his schedule. At least, he could if it wasn't choked full of people as it usually was; college students— dark circles painting sallow skin under tired eyes— fueling themselves with enough caffeine to get them through at least the next few hours, alone or gathered in hoards, littering the rustic coffeehouse.

He peeped into the store, looking in through the the large storefront window, a fine layer of mist covering the glass. Muted relief flooded Simon at the sight of the few people milling inside, barely a handful spread out amongst the booths and sturdy tables.

The heavy, earthen aroma— coffee, cream, fresh baking, varnished wood; a perfect marriage of scents— enveloped Simon as he stepped in. The warmth of the café a firm, fluid, hug.

"I'll have a pumpkin spiced latte," Simon voiced his usual order, leaning across the counter with his arms casually folded against the gleaming wood.

He shot a genuine, wide smile at the short, curly haired cashier standing behind the counter who angrily punched Simon's order into the computer.

Offered her his name at the sulky look shot his way— frown pulling down the corners of her lips, even darker circles under her eyes than under Simon's. No wonder she was bitter; she was exhausted.

"I'd say I'd have the same, but I'm more of a dark roast kinda guy," a deep masculine voice said from just behind Simon, half directed towards Simon, half towards the sullen teenaged cashier. "Simple."

Simon glanced over his shoulder and to the right, following the sound of the husky voice that had surprised him from out of nowhere. Almost face-to-face, he found himself, with a pair of dark eyes— close enough to see the cerulean blue of the right, the amalgam of blue and inky brown of the left— face framed by light blond hair and light facial scruff.

"I think you meant bitter, boring, and disgusting," Simon said, gathering himself with a trenchant grimace, tapping a finger against the slick counter along with each point of his argument.

"I think you meant the drink of men," the man monotoned, holding out a hand in Simon's direction. "Jace."

"Real men drink pumpkin spiced lattes," Simon huffed, the grin creasing the corners of his eyes pleasantly, closing his own hand firmly around Jace's. "Simon."

"I know."

"Isn't that what I'm supposed to say?" Simon asked with a slightly raised eyebrow.

Jace's hand tightened around Simon's briefly, pleasantly— strength evident in his grip— before he loosened his hold and dropped the hand to his side. Smirk aimed at Simon, slightly more subdued than earlier, the left corner quirked slightly higher than the right. Attractively lopsided; as if he intended for it to be so.

"A fan, I see?" Jace asked, undertones of dejection below the humored mask, raking his eyes slowly over Simon's figure.

"Oh, yeah, yeah," Simon affirmed, waving his hand ambiguously in the air between them, " _Huge_  fan. I really enjoyed you in that movie where you, uh... You know the one where you were dark and brooding."

"Ah, that one," Jace mused, nodding along with Simon, smile growing wider and more genuine the longer that he listened to the man speak. "That's the favourite of my movies. Ever."

"As it should be. You were— You were really great in it. Very dark. Very brooding."

"That means a lot, coming from you."  
  
"I'm flattered," Simon repeated cheerfully, unable to stop the grin cutting across his face. "Thanks," he said, tearing his attention away from Jace to speak to the surly cashier as she placed the light brown coffee cup on the counter in front of him, calling out his name even though he was standing right in front of her, looking directly at her. Teenagers.

Closing his hand around the cup, he reveled in the initial warmth seeping into his still slightly cold hands.

"Enjoy your dark roast," Simon uttered with a laugh, raising the paper cup in mock salute, an exaggerated toast.

Backwards, Simon walked a few steps away from the counter, shooting Jace a knee-weakening smile just before he turned smoothly on his heel.

"Enjoy your pumpkin spiced latte," Jace called to Simon's retreating back.   
His eyes trained firmly on Simon as he exited, the young man able to sense the force of Jace's gaze burning through him. Blazing through Simon almost tastelessly.

He needed to speak to Clary. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

He filled the expanse of lined notebook paper with his usual lazy doodles. Artfully drawn, though barely even being given Simon's complete attention.

Sitting in a row near the back of the large lecture theater, he held his arm propped against the slick tabletop and rested the side of his head in the palm of his hand. Around him, the room bustled with the sound of a steadily filling classroom. Students rushing inside, chattering loudly amongst themselves. Interesting snippets of their conversations flitted Simon's way.

"Hey," Raphael greeted coolly, sliding into the seat beside Simon. Exuding grace and class, even whilst wearing a simple pair of black jeans and a casual buttoned-down shirt, also black.

"Hey," Simon replied absently, taking a second to add inky blue shadow to the edges of a bats outstretched wing.

A slim finger poked lightly at Simon's upperarm, Raphael nudging him silently aside to have an unobstructed view of the careless drawings. His lips twitched with the hint of a smile, landed a pair of swift pats on the Simon's back in quiet appreciation of his art.

"Nice," he hummed, a monosyllable drowned out by the heavy trample of booted steps started behind them.

With a thud, Maia, having gracelessly vaulted over the width of the desk behind Simon and Raphael, landed in the vacant space on Simon's right side. Athletic, she manoeuvred with an ease completely lost on Simon, not breaking her out into a sweat.

"We heard about you meeting Jace from Clary," Maia began in lieu of greeting— no preamble, not even a smile— her tone slightly accusatory. "Not even from you. From _Clary_."

"You know, I don't know why you say her name like that," he, less than expertly, diverted. "She's really nice. You two should actually hang out sometime. You'd have fun."

Under her breath, Maia clucked and ploughed on, "Don't try and change the topic, Lewis." Breaking the fierceness of her demeanor she shot an easy, breathtaking smile at Simon. "C'mon, spill."

Groaning loudly, Simon sank low in his seat. Wondering what he ever did to deserve the kind of treatment  bestowed upon him by his _friends_.

"It isn't a big deal," Simon stated, failing as he aimed for nonchalance, voice muffled by his hands pressed over his face.

"It is," Raphael insisted with a firm nod, cutting into the conversation as if from out of nowhere.

Wrapping his own hands— calloused from hour after hour of overzealously playing the drums, yet somehow still soft from his daily moisturizing routine— around Simon's, less than gently peeling back the man's hands from where they stuck to his face. Firmly, Raphael held Simon's hands down against the desk and halted him from plastering them to his face again.

He stared at each of his friends in turn— a heavy lidded, venomous glare granted upon them as they leaned in too close and invaded his personal space. Regarding each of them, Simon's eyes widened slowly in disbelief.

"Are you two— Are you two really _tag-teaming_ me right now?" Simon asked, following the question with an exaggerated gasp; incredulous, mockingly accusatory. "Oh my _God_ , you are! Three days ago you couldn't care less about _'Hollywood's Golden Boy'_ Jace Wayland, and now I'm being ambushed for not telling you I met him? Where are my friends and what have you done to them?"

With a slight struggle, Simon ripped his hands out from under Raphael's strong hold. A bitter glare thrown Raphael's way, he straightened into a sitting position: Raphael's only reply to shrug defensively.

"We had a movie marathon," Maia explained, flat and matter-of-fact, as if it were information Simon had already been supplied with, "He's really good."

"Oh my God," Simon exclaimed in a breathy rush, voice hushed in disbelief.

He slammed his hands on the table, the sound thankfully muffled by the thick pages of the open textbook. Behind the frames of his glasses, Simon's eyes widened larger than they had been earlier, painfully so.

Simon whipped his head around staring at Maia to take in Raphael, quietly nodding in agreement with her.

"Oh my God," he continued, "You guys had a movie night? Without me? _Without me?"_

"Dramatic, much?" Maia asked, eyebrow raised. "Would you even have come?"

"I'm not being dramatic. And, yes. I would've."

"Really?" Raphael questioned, poking Simon in the hollow of his cheek— awfully touchy-feely today. "I don't believe it."

"Yeah, of course," Simon hissed, swatting Raphael away. "What's better than, like, three... four hours of making fun of someone? _Nothing_."

Raphael sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He shook his head slowly and muttered disdainfully under his breath in Spanish, looking up at Simon as he followed it with, "You're insufferable."

"All I'm hearing is another word for love," Simon sang.

Maia barked out a harsh laugh and punched her friend in the shoulder— light enough to get his attention, but rough enough to have Simon hiss under his breath and rub at the stinging area of his arm.

Glaring hotly at Maia, Simon faced forward. Mentally, he willed both of his friends to leave him alone and in peace.

They crowded in on him again. Near, but silent. An entire two minutes passed without a single word being said between them.  
Were they leaving him alone? Simon allowed himself to hope. Undoubtedly jinxing it.

Raphael spoke up first, "So, what's he like?"

Letting out a throaty groan, Simon rolled his eyes. Dropped his head forward to land forcefully on the open book in front of him and sighed.

"Come on," Maia insisted, manicured finger poking Simon in his side.

"Shh," he chastised, sitting up sharply before shifting away from Maia. He waved a hand ambiguously in the air between them— choosing to ignore their prodding questions, knowing that he'd get nowhere. "I have to concentrate on... _Concentrate on...?_ What class is this?" He asked desperately and looked around him for a clue.

Maia pointed toward the whiteboard with a wry smile. "Marine conservation biology."

"Marine conservation...? I don't do that. This isn't my class," he muttered.

"No, it's not," Maia agreed, hiding a smirk.

"You knew."

"Of course I knew, it's been like two months and you haven't been in this class. So, of course, I knew. You're just oblivious," she said. "Anyway, when else would me and Raphael have a chance to ambush you?"

Gathering together the stack of his books and slinging his ratty backpack over his shoulder, Simon murmured, "I hate you both."

His hushed proclamation succeeded only in Raphael and Maia quietly chuckling at his expense. Chuckling that Simon chose to ignore.

As careful as possible— begging to any God listening that for once in his life he wouldn't stumble or fall— Simon slid past Raphael and into the aisle.

Without a backward glance, he rushed out of the class.

°

"We actually have customers today," Dot teased, popping her head out from between the multiple strings of beads that served as a curtain separating the back room from the front.

She raised an eyebrow at Simon, seated in his usual corner of the sofa, guitar cradled in the seat of his lap.

"I'm providing free entertainment," he said with a wide smile, answering her unasked question, striking a soft chord to emphasize his point.

"Keep it to a _minimum,"_ Dot warned below her breath, "You have a job to do."

Simon nodded his swift agreement, wary under the woman's narrow gaze. Dot, far from terrifying, held a subdued strength and sternness that called for her to be respected. Difficult for it to be described, but clear enough to see once in her presence.

Her dark eyes flickered hurriedly over the waiting area and landed on Clary, sitting on the front desk. Jean clad legs dangling over the side, sketchbook propped at an angle on her thighs.

"Clary," Dot called, gestured for the girl to follow behind her.

Smiling at Clary as she dropped from the table and walked past him, Simon shot her a double thumbs up. Encouraging, mouthing a brief wish of good luck.

He watched Clary disappear behind Dot. After months of training, of practice on both volunteers and on Dot herself, Clary would, for the first time, be tattooing an actual paying client.

She hid her agitation well, but Simon knew it was there. Though probably not as strongly as it was to the man: Simon was likely more anxious for her than she was.

Exhaling noisily, he devoted himself to splitting his equal attentions between working on the new song—the same one that had been stuck in his head since the beginning of the week— and playing at being the worst security in the history of security.

On any usual day Dot, Clary and Maia worked well and without any need for outside help. But, with Maia having to take time out to focus more on her taxing marine biology course, and Clary finally being promoted from observant intern, Simon came in handy.

He, according to the justification the women had used to persuade him, almost never had anything going on— it made him perfect to sit in the waiting area for hours. And, they'd teasingly added, it gave him ample opportunity to work on his music in the company of people who couldn't exactly run away.

As _grateful_ as he was for both the job and their _faith_ in him, Simon had no idea what exactly they expected of him. He couldn't fight; he could barely walk without stumbling.   
The distinct triage of chuckles that had ensued after he had voiced his troubles to all three women hadn't done much to quiet his turmoil.

"We can take care of ourselves," Clary had said, nudging Simon playfully in the side.

"Yeah," Dot agreed. "We just need you to sit there, look pretty. You know, keep a watchful eye and warn us if anything seems suspicious. We can do everything ourselves. And," she had continued in her attempt to sell Simon on the idea, "It's good money for only a day or two."

Even with the nervousness that still niggled away at him, Simon had accepted— it _was_ , after all, good money for a few days work.

The soft jingle of the door hitting against the bell, the faint click of the door shutting, jolted Simon from his reverie. He stilled his hand from its absentminded strumming.

Internally, he cursed. Barely forty minutes on his new job and already he was failing miserably.

Falling into the easy, natural role of awkward greeter, Simon gazed up at the person who had entered.

Black leather and combat boots, blond hair and deep eyes, an assured crooked smile greeted him right back.

"Are you following me?" Simon asked impulsively, brow furrowing slightly as he took a long look at Jace.

His mouth fell into a grimace as he fought the urge to facepalm himself. There, again, was that all too familiar regret at always saying the first thing that came to mind.

"Yeah, 'cause you're the only attractive guy in this whole city," Jace replied, the grin that stayed on his face making the ensuing eye roll lose all venom.

"I'm attractive. Wait, are you saying I'm not?" he asked, confused, feigning hurt at the man's sarcastic tone.

"I'm saying that if someone's lead you to believe differently, you should probably stay away from them," Jace began, arms crossed firm against his chest, "Lying does more damage than it does good, pumpkin."

"Know me for two minutes and you're already insulting me," came his angrily muttered scoff, Simon choosing to ignore the little _pumpkin._

"Maybe I'm socially awkward and terrible at conversations," Jace said with a shrug.

He may have been joking, but the serious draw of his face left Simon unsure. It seemed much more like a personal jab aimed Simon's way.

Simon chuckled dryly and lowered his guitar to sit beside him on the couch, perched against his thigh. Shooting a glance at the antique, Victorian-era clock gifted to Dot by an ex-boyfriend and hanging on the opposite wall, he made a few quick mental calculations.

"If you're here to see Dot, she should be out in about a half hour or so," Simon informed the still standing man, posture alarmingly perfect.

Again, that need to facepalm. Who else would he be there to see?

"I can wait," Jace said, nodding and looking around the tattoo parlour.

His eyes lighted upon the art which adorned the length of the walls, sample drawings from each of the tattoo artists that had ever worked there— it was tradition.

Settling himself on the sofa beside Simon, Jace gestured towards the guitar that had been set precariously aside. "You play? Are you any good?" he asked, eyebrow quirked.

"Well, I think so," Simon said, shrugging along with his answer. His fingers brushed over the strings of the guitar. "I think I'm pretty good. It's whatever."

"Oh, he is," Clary answered Jace's questions, appearing as if from out of nowhere. The low, melodic tinkle of the beads announcing her entrance.

"Are you guys done?" Simon asked, changing the topic, surprised at the idea that the session could be over in such a short amount of time.

Wiping her hands on the backs of her thighs as she headed towards the stocked mini-fridge hidden in a crook underneath the front desk— in use since the larger one in the employee break room burnt out a week ago— Clary shook her head.

"Nope. Let's just say, I guess Russell's probably regretting getting a tattoo on the soles of his feet. So," Clary said, raising the bottle of cold water and waving it in the air in front of her, "We're taking a little break. Getting him some water."

Simon nodded solemnly, grimacing for Russell's sake. "You know, I heard that that's the most painful place to get a tattoo. I could've told him that."

"I doubt he would've listened to you anyway," Clary said, shrugging, "It's some kind of tribute to his mother."

"On the soles of his feet?" Jace asked incredulously. "For his mom?"

Clary nodded and shrugged again, eyes narrowing slightly at Jace, "Something about her not just always being a part of him, but also being with him every step of the way. It's sweet, I think."

"That really is sweet," Jace agreed, shooting an award winning smile at Clary before he continued smoothly and with a sly smile. "Any way, what were you saying about Simon being really good with his hands? With the guitar, I mean?" An unconvincing save.

Heat blazed across Simon's face, colouring him a bright shade of red. With his luck, and even worse track record, it was surprising that he didn't choke.

"Oh, um, Simon's great with the guitar. He should play for you sometime," Clary answered cautiously, making her way slowly back to Dot and the client, Russell, "I've been gone too long, I need to get this back to Russ before he passes out on us. Bye."

She waved at them before disappearing, her head popping out a moment later to reassure Jace that Dot would be with him soon.

Jace reclined comfortably in the sofa, his fiery stare landing fixedly on Simon; relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world simply to wait.

Under the intensity of his gaze, Simon fidgeted. His hand curled around the hem t-shirt, around the neck of his guitar. The only thing stopping him from spouting a series of senseless, unimportant facts was his teeth lightly entrapping his bottom lip.

"Don't let me disturb you," Jace said, "You can continue playing."

"Oh, the great and mighty Jace Wayland has granted me permission," Simon flatly affected, tinted with annoyance. "How ever shall I deny him?"

He may have liked Jace the first time they met, may even have flirted, but now could not seem to stop himself from falling into his original dislike of the man.

Raising his hands above his head, as if picturing a banner or words appearing in lights, Jace said, " _The great and mighty Jace Wayland._ I like it."

"Of course you do," Simon muttered, "You really are a dick."

"Hey," Jace cried, mockingly offended. "Not until _at least_ the second date."

"What— Oh. _Oh,"_ Simon stuttered.

First bewilderment, then the dawning realization danced across Simon's face. The array of visibly changing emotions, all in quick succession of each other, made Jace laugh. The rumbling chuckle shooting right through Simon, leaving him surprised and breathless.

Straightening in his seat, Jace stared at Simon. Shaking his head slowly, swiping away a long strand of hair out of his eye.

"I'm kidding. I'm kidding, I swear," Jace declared. "Y'know, unless you're down for that."

"Not until at least the second date," Simon replied with a smile, one that could almost be construed as shy, mimicking Jace and regaining his posture.

Jace barked out a short, powerful laugh, moving forward slightly in his seat. His laugh, contagious, sending Simon into a quiet fit of his own chuckling.

Inching his way closer to Simon, narrowing the gap between the two of them until the space separating them was miniscule; virtually nonexistent. That close, his strong masculine scent— fresh mint, ice, spice— enveloped Simon in an amatory blanket. Private and welcoming.

"Maybe," Jace began, leaning towards Simon, his voice an intimate murmur, "I could get that first date soon."

Everything about Jace oozed that of a man who, once he set his focused sights on something, or _someone_ , wouldn't give up until he had it.

Everything about Jace oozed someone who was used to getting exactly what he wanted, without ever having to work too hard for it.

"Hm," Simon hummed under his breath, sliding an inch away from Jace. "After you just admitted that all you want is to get into my pants? I respectfully decline."

Jace's heavy lidded eyes raked steadily over Simon's figure, not well presented in his sweater and jeans. He brought his arm up to rest over the back of the sofa, scooted nearer to cover the widened space that Simon had created.

"Well, I respectfully think that you should rethink that."

Awkwardly, Simon tittered and moved farther away from Jace.

Voice, as strained as the smile painted across his face, he said, "You are making me _very_ uncomfortable."

Jace opened his mouth to speak, cut off first by the icy glare shot his way, then by the sudden chatter of Clary, Dot and Russell making their way into the room.

With their reappearance, Simon sent telepathic _thank_ _you's_ to all three of them for saving him.   
He had never had a more uncomfortable meeting in his life.

He glanced over at Jace, who had returned to his place at the other end of the couch when Simon's friends, and their hulking client had entered, and wondered what exactly had changed in the differences between their two meetings.

To think, Simon chastised himself, he had actually began to like Jace.  
He was exactly the asshole that Simon had expected him to be.


	3. Chapter 3

"Maybe," Jace began. Leaning towards Simon, he worked around the words threatening to choke him. He didn't know where the conversation was going, but he knew he would soon regret it. "I could get that first date soon."

Simon watched him carefully. Intrigue battled wariness, danced in his eyes.

"Hm," Simon hummed under his breath and shifted in his seat. "After you just admitted that all you want is to get into my pants? I respectfully decline."

A breakout of sweat on the back of his neck troubled him. Jace imagined the moisture dotting his brow in beads, and wished Simon wouldn't notice.

A subtle clearing of his throat.

His heavy lidded gaze— the kind to have distracted and won over more people that Jace could possible count— raked steadily over Simon's seated figure.  
Dressed comfortably, in a sweater that hung loosely and jeans torn up the legs and around the knees, Simon was the mirror to Jace and his severe black ensemble.

 _Want_ curled in the pit of his stomach. In violent butterflies begging for a hint of touch.

Jace wanted to curl his fingers around the hem of Simon's oversized sweater; tug Simon forward and into the seat of his lap; let his hands touch against what Jace knew would be soft skin.

He was staring. It was difficult to look away.

Simon glanced to his hands held tight around the neck of his guitar.

Bringing his arm up to rest over the back of the sofa, Jace moved to close the small gap. "Well, I respectfully think that you should rethink that."

 _Too forceful?_ He nipped at the inside of his cheek and fought at the groan almost tearing free from his throat, fought the urge to slap his hand against his forehead.

Awkwardly, Simon tittered and moved farther away from Jace.

 _Yes._ Jace got his answer.

A strained smile to match his voice, Simon said, "You are making me _very_ uncomfortable."

_Much t_ _oo forceful._

A stinging in his chest because that was the last thing he wanted Simon to be: uncomfortable and uncertain around Jace, disliking even the thought of his company.

An apology sat on his tongue. He opened his mouth to take back each of his words, to utter a steady "sorry" before Simon decided he was better off leaving.

"Simon—"

"Oh, look at the time," Simon said. Cradling his guitar to his chest and shouldering his bag, he stood and took a step back. "I have to do something in the back room. Something different that means I don't have to be in _this_ particular area."

He left. And Jace decided that maybe he didn't need that new tattoo after all. Maybe he needed to visit Hunter's Moon. Maybe he needed to get hopelessly shit-faced.

✴️

Her name was Clover. Hazy and sleep-disorientated, Jace awoke to the thought.

Or was it Eliza? He opened his eyes to a pair of narrow slits and glanced to the bodies framing his.

 _Elijah,_ Jace mentally corrected himself as he cast his gaze over the short man curled into his side.

Clover and Elijah. He remembered tipsily learning their names at the bar, sharing touches and fumbling as they stumbled to his apartment.

Gold against black adorned the room, decorating it in an extravagance Jace was not too fond of. _So,_ and he sighed regrettably at the thought. Not even his own apartment, but Magnus' one.

Nights blurred together in his mind.

The brunette he had taken home a week ago became the pair of best friends bracketing him in this monstrous bed; became the green painted mouth of a girl from Monday; became the deep brown eyes of a boy he hardly knew.

The whisper of a bird's wing against the window.

The sun just touching the edges of the room.

An wash of warm breath across his chest. And Jace fell into a sleep that curled its warm arms around his body, pulled him close into its gentle cocoon.

°

A room in shades of purple. Painting the walls from floor to ceiling; neon lighting upon their moving bodies, casting them in tones of mauve and violet.

His sturdy fingers tangled in a mess of brown curls.

His mouth pressed to the curve of a neck. Mouthing as if he wanted nothing more than to devour; begging as if he wanted nothing more than to be devoured.

Hands over arms. Fingernails scraped at skin, scratched endless lines into exposed backs.

" _Simon_." The whispered name sat on his tongue, burned with a holiness that filled the room to the corners even the purple couldn't reach.

" _Simon_." A repetition. A plead for the religion he held; for the religion he was.

°

"No more," Magnus began when Jace found his way from the room, hours since he started awake and waited for Clover and Elijah to leave.

The dream lingered at the corners of his mind. Desperately clinging to him and begging for his immediate attention.  
It was attention Jace could not afford to grant, for fear of where his imagination might fly.

Standing behind the elaborate kitchen counter, silver teaspoon cutting through a mug of bitter coffee, his shoulders were a rigid line under a light suit jacket. Black and gold, its buttons a polished brass, his jacket matched the decorated interior.

Jace ran a hand through his hair. Wet from the shower, it stuck to his skin in tendrils and dripped down his back.

Absently he wished he could wake up as Magnus did. His skin clear, not a single strand of hair out of place.  
His own hair a mess and framing circles colouring the skin around his eyes, Jace did not compare.

"What?" Jace asked, bare feet almost silent as he padded across the kitchen.

" _This_." Magnus raised his hands. Gestured around the room without purpose. "Jace. No more of _this._ My home is not a hotel to be used for your hook-ups."

Head in the fridge, Jace pushed cartons and containers aside in search of a quick breakfast.

A shake of his head. Another sigh.  
Did Magnus actually not have any food for breakfast? Or was he _trying_ to make his apartment as inhospitable for Jace as possible?

A nearly empty carton of orange juice in his hands, he let the fridge door thud shut. "Mags, if I knew you minded so much—"

"You would have stopped coming by?" Magnus interjected. "Excuse me if I don't believe you."

Jace shrugged and decided there was no point in arguing the point.

"Alec and I..." A careful pause as Magnus seemed to choose his words. "You know we love having you around."

He swallowed down a mouthful of the too-sweet-too-sour orange juice before he spoke. "I mean, I'm great company. And, y'know, the reason you two even know each other."

"Jace—"

"Which means you kinda owe me."

Voice low, brow a frustrated furrow and hand outstretched. "I want my key back. Alec and I need time to be a couple— It's... difficult... to do that with you always drunk, and always around."

"What?"

"My key." Magnus crooked his fingers, bending them to his palm and away. Said, before Jace could ask, "We're still working together, of course. That doesn't change."

A frown pulled Magnus' mouth into a hard line. Softness danced only at the corners of his eyes, hid behind the stern wall that was the rest of the older man's face.

It was a face for the boardroom, for tiresome employers. Not a face for Jace.

Without a fight, a shiver kept at the base of his spine, he let the key drop into the waiting palm. "Your place is just _so much nicer than mine_ ," Jace said on the end of a whine.

"How would you know? You're hardly ever there."

"I just know."

"So, buy a new apartment," Magnus offered, smiling around the mug brought to his lips. "Or hire an interior decorator. I'm sure you know someone."

"I guess I'm buying a new apartment then."

✴️

A layer of mist etched itself across the wall of glass, that was how cold it was outside.

"I don't know what to do, _Iz_ ," Jace complained flatly, pulling Izzy's nickname into a multisyllable stretch.

Balancing on the edge of a stool, he glanced out the window and into the busy street beyond the counter lining the cafe's side. Looked back to his iPhone screen.

"What?" Izzy said, tucking a lock of thick hair behind her ear. "It's not like you don't have somewhere to stay. You do have somewhere to stay, don't you?"

A push of his hair behind his ear— Jace mimicking the action without realizing— Jace shook his head.

"I still have my apartment, but it's not about that," Jace answered easily. "I've got a question, and Alec is too lovesick to be any help— Iz, you've dated nerds before, right? Or at least hooked up with a few?"

"Is this going somewhere?" She narrowed her eyes. "Because I'm shadowing my Forensics professor in twenty minutes and she's on the other side of the campus."

"There's this guy—"

"Another one?" Izzy cut him off with a short exhale of breath, a slow shake of her head.

The remark was the edge of a knife pricking skin. It cut deep, but it could have cut deeper. "He's not just _another one._ He's... He's really weird. Cute, too. And very strange." A smile he tried to swallow danced on his lips. He scratched at his cheek, at the unshaven scruff, and looked out the window.

Their first meeting in this coffee shop; their last meeting at Dot's tattoo parlour; the dream from that morning.  
It all tangled into one ball, was persistent in playing at the back of his mind.

Izzy's short laugh dragged him back.

A tree stood behind her, leaves rustled and fell low. Her deep brown eyes, in competing light and shadow, were almost coal black.  
Mirth and concern in each line found a home in the creases by her eyes, in the curve of her mouth halfway between a smile and a frown.

"He sounds like a keeper," she teased. "When did you start dating?"

"I, uh. I haven't actually asked him out yet." A nervous admission.

" _Oh,_ _no._ You fool. You disturbed me to tell me about someone you haven't even asked out. As if I didn't get enough of that angsty pining shit from pre-Magnus Alec."

"It's different this time, Izzy," Jace insisted, a gentle chuckle dying on his lips. "I think I might _really_ like him."

"You really liked Antony, and you really liked Mishka. Nothing stopped you from asking either of them out."

They settled into a second of silence.

Together since they were children, it was harder than any of them had anticipated to be separated by so many miles. Alec and Jace in one state or traveling together, Izzy at Harvard.

Meeting each others gazes they shared a small smile, a similar shrug.

 _You got this,_ Izzy mouthed. Dipping her head in an encouraging nod. "No matter what's your stage name, you're a Lightwood. Lightwood's can do any fucking thing. Remember that."

 _"You're right. I am Jace_ _Lightwood. I am Jace_ _fucking_ Wayland. I can do this. I can do anything." He grinned and sat up a little bit straighter. For just a second before he deflated. "What if I can't do this, Iz? I haven't _dated_ anyone in years, and I'm always _this_ close to making dick jokes when him and I talk—"

Out of sight a shrill alarm beeped, stopped Jace short.

"I've gotta get going," Izzy said, cussing under breath and glancing at her wristwatch. "Jace, I love you. I believe in you. Text me when you ask this mysterious weirdo out."

The screen went black before Jace could voice his own goodbye.

He downed his sweetened coffee in two swift gulps. Exhausted and sore from sitting uncomfortably for almost an hour, Jace pushed the stool away and out from under him.

An eager fan that was all brown hair and braces stopped his attempt at a quick exit. "I'm sorry to worry you, sir," they said, "Would you mind if we took a selfie together? I'm just. Wow. I'm a _huge_ fan."

"Sure," Jace readily agreed. He bent to smile into the camera, patted the kid on the back before wishing them a good day and leaving.

The coffee shop was quieter than usual; empty of the one person Jace had hoped his lurking would bring him to.

Was it a bit creepy, waiting around for a guy he had only met twice? Yes. Undoubtedly.

Could he help himself? No.

°

"He's not here," Clary greeted as soon as Jace entered the tattoo parlour.

She glanced briefly from the spread textbook to cast him a welcoming smile.

Selfishly, he knew, Jace hoped that her kindness meant Simon hadn't gone into detail about their last conversation.  
Or that all was forgiven.

"Maybe I'm not looking for him. I could be looking for you."

"Are you?" she challenged him, eyebrow raised.

"No," Jace admitted. Heat in his cheeks, he could feel the faint blush colouring him a pale pink. "Not really."

Clary breathed out a laugh and went back to her book. "Like I said, he's not here."

"Oh." Hands in his pockets, Jace rocked forward on the balls of his feet. Unsure of what to do now, he ploughed on with only a half-formed plan. "I— You wouldn't be able to help me out with a few things, would you? A few _Simon-related_ things?"

A finger, pink nail polish peeling, ran along the side of her book. A purse of her lips, a glance into the near distance.

The book, when she closed it, sent a muffled thud echoing in the waiting room. "Okay," Clary began cautiously. "What do you need, and what's in it for me and Simon?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though I had so much love for this project and so many ideas for where I wanted this fic to go, I honestly didn't expect to ever come back to it. But the beautiful comments I continued to receive, as well as writing everyday for Fictober, must have triggered some kind of inspiration because... well... here I am :) 
> 
> Note: I have not watched Shadowhunters since I binge watched the first two seasons last year, and have not written for the show since I wrote and posted the 2nd chapter last year November 24th.  
> Because of all that my characterization might be quite off.  
> I hope you enjoyed and continue to enjoy this anyway. 
> 
> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out, you can find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/shuriidyke)

**Author's Note:**

> This is me writing something cute and sweet to take a break from all the sadness I've been writing.
> 
> Thoughts? I'd love to hear from you all ♡
> 
> ._._._._.
> 
>    
> If you want to see how I procrastinate, shoot me some asks or just hang out, you can find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/shuriidyke)


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